


let me finish

by words-writ-in-starlight (Gunmetal_Crown)



Series: a softer animorphs [8]
Category: Animorphs - Katherine A. Applegate
Genre: Andalite Cultural Headcanons, Andalite Kissing, Andalites, Angst, Book 40: The Other, Canon Disabled Character, Fluff, Fluff with the Looming Specter of Death and Loneliness, General tragedy, M/M, Soola's Disease, Terminal Illnesses, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, gay andalites
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 04:17:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11592750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gunmetal_Crown/pseuds/words-writ-in-starlight
Summary: No, no, we’re not breaking up!  You didn’t let me finish.  I’m gay for YOU! (And I’m queer for math!)Gafinilan's condition is worsening, and Mertil misses him already.





	let me finish

**Author's Note:**

> This is the funniest prompt I have, so naturally the fic includes: fatal genetic disorders, angst about Andalite culture, grief about someone who isn't dead yet, arguments over Andalite honor, broken lamps, the whole _vecol_ disaster, gravitational physics but sad, and some Andalite smoochin'. I love Andalite smoochin'.
> 
> Give me more Andalite smoochin', Internet.
> 
> Recommended songs for the right mood are Sedated by Hozier and Skulls by Bastille.

It was a loud, complex crash that got Mertil’s attention, and his hooves clattered on the tile floor of their false human house as he darted toward the source of the noise.

<Gafinilan!> he called.  <Gafinilan, are you all right?>

<I’m fine, Mertil,> Gafinilan said tightly as Mertil found him.  He was standing very still and stiff, hands tucked close to his chest.  A lamp was broken on the ground, the source of the crash.  It looked like Gafinilan had bumped into it, and the marks on his hands suggested he had tried to catch it.  <I just…>  He opened his hands, almost helplessly, and Mertil darted forward to catch them in his own.  Blue-green blood seeped from the pads of Gafinilan’s fingers and palms and pooled in the creases, the telltale glint of broken glass hidden in the cuts, and Mertil sighed.

<Did you try to catch it, or--?>

<I forgot that the glass would break,> Gafinilan said quietly.  <It—it took me off guard.>

Mertil looked up at his face, and his hearts hurt to see the way Gafinilan turned his face blindly toward where their hands rested between them.  Gafinilan had always been taller, much more the ideal of the Andalite warrior with his strong legs and uncommonly powerful upper body, and confident in his own physical skill.  Watching him lose that confidence in himself, bit by bit, one precious scrap of time after another, was like being flayed alive.  Mertil reached up and touched Gafinilan’s face gently, and Gafinilan tilted his cheek into his hand.

<Morph, and your hands will heal,> Mertil said.  <I will clean up the lamp.>

Gafinilan nodded and took a careful step back, face perfectly clear of any sign of the pain that Mertil knew he had to be experiencing.  He started to morph, while Mertil dropped to his knees and began to pick up the broken lamp, starting with the small glass shards from the light bulb.

“It’s dark in here,” Gafinilan said in a tone of surprise when he had finished morphing. 

<Yes,> Mertil said dryly, <the lamp is broken.>  There was quiet for a moment, as he picked up each fragment and let it _plink_ into the pile growing on the end table, where it would be easy to sweep into the trash.   <I will need your help with the rest,> Mertil finally sighed, looking at the delicate bones of his fingers and the weak muscles of his forearms in comparison to the dense ceramic base of the lamp.  He could lift it once he got it up, certainly, but prying it off the ground would be difficult.

Gafinilan crouched down without a word and picked it up effortlessly in the broad hands of his human morph, setting it on the table out of the way.

Mertil smiled at him, reaching out to tap the back of Gafinilan’s hand with a finger, and said, <This morph has its advantages.  Not especially in the appearance department, but.>  A shrug rippled down his flanks and he added, wry, <You can’t have everything.>

“I’m not staying in it,” Gafinilan said quietly, unamused by Mertil’s teasing.

All the air seemed to be sucked out of the room, and Mertil carefully did not stamp a hoof in exasperation.  _Fool_.   <I said nothing,> he replied stiffly.  <It is, of course, your decision.>  He walked into another room, with an inordinate number of cupboards covering half the available walls as well as something that Mertil highly suspected of being a heat-based torture implement and another device that emitted low level electromagnetic radiation for no reason he could identify—the humans called it a _kitchen_ and used it to prepare their food.  A light plastic bin with an empty bag in it occupied a corner, and Mertil reached down to catch it by the lip and carry it back into the other room, along with a brush that was usually attached to a flat, semi-triangular pan. 

Sweeping the broken lamp into the bin, Mertil said nothing, feeling his fur bristle down his spine as his tail arched out of habit.  It would have made him look dangerous, once.  As he picked up the base and set it in the bin on top of the debris, he forced himself to lower his tail to the humble level considered dignified for a _vecol_.  It strained at his back, the muscles at the base of his tail pulled out of their natural position, and he knew it would cause real pain after a few hours.

Gafinilan made a noise with his human mouth that Mertil hesitantly interpreted as frustration—disgust?—and moved Mertil to the side, picking up the bin in his strong human arms and returning it to the kitchen.

“Don’t do that,” Gafinilan snapped when he came back.

<Don’t do what?> Mertil demanded, not bothering to mask the belligerence in his thoughts.  He understood that Gafinilan was suffering, but he wasn’t a patient being at the best of times.  Normally, that was what Gafinilan was good at—playing diplomat, even if it was mostly tail-blade diplomacy, to smooth any wrong-rubbed fur while Mertil was off galivanting about in fighters.

Gafinilan made a gesture that seemed less fluid than it should have been, with fewer fingers, but nonetheless communicated his point.  Mertil’s tail.  An old argument.

<I am filling my necessary duties as a _vecol_ ,> Mertil said, real anger edging his thoughts.  <Humility, and isolation.  It is no fault of _mine_ if you refuse to accept the reality. >

“You have no reason to be ashamed,” Gafinilan said, his human eyes narrowing.  “You were wounded honorably, in battle against the Yeerk force.  Any Andalite warrior would have been proud to perform as you did.  I will not watch you lower yourself for it.”

<You have served honorably, the pinnacle of an Andalite warrior,> Mertil shot back mercilessly, <and you’re making me watch you die for it.>

Human eyes were less expressive, smaller, than Andalite eyes—from Mertil’s brief experience with the species, they did more expressing with their mouth.  Nonetheless, he recognized the way Gafinilan’s eyes flared wide and he jerked back in surprise, wavering on his two human feet.  He looked like Mertil had just struck him hard with the flat of his tail blade, almost stunned.

<So,> Mertil said, <I assume you will forgive me if I don’t care to take your opinion into account.>

It wasn’t until after he’d left, retreated back into the concealed rooms where they had managed to imitate some scrap of their home, that Mertil realized he’d had his tail arched high over his back, fitting his old status as a fighter pilot, for the entire argument.

Mertil didn’t often dwell on his frustration with their living situation—Gafinilan had worked so hard to secure them a place to stay, safe and away from prying eyes—but at the moment, it was suffocating.  He wanted to _run_ , to sprint across the grass until he felt better, looser, _freer_.  Instead he was more or less imprisoned within the walls of the house, and since the disaster precipitated by his last outing, he felt the invisible barriers holding him in place more than ever.  He couldn’t in good conscience risk the Animorphs’ war effort for his own desire for space.  But that didn’t mean the idle wish wasn’t there.

And then there was Gafinilan, Mertil thought as he folded his knees and lowered himself onto the cushions they had strewn on the floor in a poor approximation of a resting couch in a scoop.  The two of them had been side by side for their entire lives, since Mertil could remember.  They had gone to the academy together—Gafinilan because he had the ideal build for a warrior and it was expected, and Mertil because his eyes had turned toward the stars as soon as he had his hooves under him, or so his parents always said.  It was uncommon for a pair to be posted together with any reliability, but Mertil and Gafinilan had always been sent to the same ships, the same assignments, even though Gafinilan was a combat specialist and Mertil was a pilot.  They were partners.  _Shorm_.  More than family.  The stretch that their thought speech could accomplish was a tremendous asset in battle, and they fought well in concert, compensating easily for the areas where the other was weak.  On the ground, Mertil was quick and light on his feet, where Gafinilan had the strength and power to force close combat.  In space, Gafinilan was a skilled gunner with decent tactics, but his disinterest in flight maneuvers meant that Mertil’s ‘fancy tricks,’ as he had wryly called them in training, often saved him from being shot down.

When Mertil had been wounded, Gafinilan had abandoned everything to care for him.  Even if they were returned to Andalite society, even given the extenuating circumstances, Gafinilan would be considered marred by the company he had kept, and yet he hadn’t paused for a moment.  Between one heartsbeat and another, Mertil’s life had been destroyed, and Gafinilan had tossed his own aside without a second thought so that they could remain together.

Mertil didn’t know what life would be like if— _when_ —the _Soola’s_ Disease took its final toll.  But he rather suspected that it would be that, rather than any injury to his own person, that laid Mertil as low as Andalite culture said he should be. 

He wasn’t sure how long he had been obsessively turning over his own grim thoughts when the door opened quietly and Gafinilan, in his own Andalite body, stepped in.

<What?> Mertil asked, perfectly aware that he was being rude.

<I am sorry,> Gafinilan said, subdued, his tail slack and his stalk eyes lowered.  <I don’t want to fight.>

<Then stop _picking_ fights, > Mertil grumbled, but there was no heat to the thought.  He was really a pathetically easy mark for Gafinilan, he thought to himself in exasperation, and it was a good thing that his frank-minded, honest _shorm_ would never think to abuse it.  One apology and anything was forgiven.  Except for the biggest thing, of course—Mertil doubted that all the apologies in the world would make up for Gafinilan’s refusal to become a _nothlit_.

Gafinilan looked up from the floor and offered a hesitant flicker of a smile.  <I will do my best,> he said.

<You’ve been saying that since we were children,> Mertil said, with a huff of air through his nose and a mocking gesture to accompany the roll of his eyes.  Gafinilan wouldn’t be able to see the eyeroll, not anymore, with his sight reduced to blurred impressions of color and shape.  <Come here.>

They never rearranged their space, not anymore, and they never discussed why it had suddenly become static.  But Gafinilan picked his way over the floor as confidently as if he’d been able to see every detail, and lowered himself to the cushions so that he was pressed along Mertil’s side, his legs tucked off to the side.  There was a long exhale and a faint shudder that spoke volumes about the relief lying down offered Gafinilan’s joints and muscles, ravaged by the disease, and it shook Mertil to his core.

<You cannot leave me yet,> Mertil whispered, reaching out and catching Gafinilan’s hand in his own.  <All your plants will die if you expect me to care for them,> he added, a weak joke that earned no response.  He tightened his grip on Gafinilan’s hand and repeated, trying not to sound desperate, <You cannot leave me.  Not yet.>

<Not yet,> Gafinilan agreed, and his voice was faint.  Mertil twisted and pressed his palm to Gafinilan’s face, turning his head until they could rest their foreheads together.  Gafinilan’s hands—with the proper number of fingers this time, hands as familiar as Mertil’s own—came to rest on Mertil’s face in turn.  His thumbs stroked gentle arcs into the arch of bone under Mertil’s closed main eyes.  Gafinilan’s powerful tail shifted to drape over Mertil’s back, protective, and the mottled darker blues of Mertil’s fur complemented the bright teal of Gafinilan’s, the ivory-pale of his tail blade.  Even after all their years together, there was a shock of startled satisfaction that jumped into Mertil’s chest at the easy, willing intimacy of the gesture.

This was theirs, as it had been since they began their training.  This, the moment of stillness, of _closeness_ , of Gafinilan’s talented hands pressed against Mertil’s face, this was still his.  He would keep it as jealously as he could, until it was ripped away from him by force. 

<You are better than all of them,> Gafinilan said, and he sounded like a child, petty and sure of himself.  <I don’t like to see you think less of yourself.>

<Yes, well,> Mertil said, bringing his other hand up to wrap around Gafinilan’s wrist—not to force his hand down, just to enjoy the solidity of the bones and the pulse under the skin.  There was a flutter there, between the regular four-beat.  _Soola’s_ brought an arrhythmia, often into the upper heart before the lower, and Mertil knew what Gafinilan’s pulse should feel like, well enough to detect the change.   <I don’t particularly care for it myself.>

They sat in silence, curled together like something out of Mertil’s older sister’s cloud sculptures, and Mertil wondered if Gafinilan was trying as hard as he was to memorize the feeling.  To think that, once, Mertil had believed he would have this all his life seemed laughable to him now.  These days, every moment with Gafinilan was something to be clutched at and hoarded.

Even the arguments.

Mertil felt the sweep of Gafinilan’s thumbs, back and forth in concert, and tried to imprint the exact scent of him into his memory—growing things and something that had always inexplicably reminded Mertil of the library where the archives were kept, some of them so old they were on _single use holos_.  Gafinilan used to say that it was because he spent so much time there doing Mertil’s homework, while Mertil was off playing with his latest technical toy.

It took Gafinilan shifting his legs and making a faint huff of discomfort for Mertil to reluctantly release his grip.

<Would you like to lie down?> Mertil asked, and he thought he was quite successful at keeping his inquiry polite rather than mildly frantic, which was his impulse.  It was foolish to ask if Gafinilan was in pain, lately, because the answer was always _yes_ with varying degrees of emphasis or derision, depending on Gafinilan’s mood and how obvious Mertil had allowed his anxiety to become, but it was always the first question that came to mind.

<No,> Gafinilan said, like a raw _aristh_ sulking over a reprimand.   <I am tired of lying down.> 

Nonetheless, he began to carefully shift himself until he was lying on his side, his head pillowed on one arm and a number of cushions.  It was an unnatural position for an Andalite—they usually slept standing, or else reclining as Mertil was—but it was the only thing that seemed to soothe some of Gafinilan’s discomfort, taking his weight off his abused joints and letting him rest more easily.  Mertil rearranged himself accordingly, so that he was tucked neatly into the space between Gafinilan’s lower spine and upper torso, and rested his fingertips on the curve of Gafinilan’s lower ribs.  His lower heart—bigger than the upper heart above—pumped steadily as Mertil stroked his fingers through the rich blue fur, where it blended into the tan markings on Gafinilan’s underbelly.

<Talk to me,> Gafinilan said, weariness permeating every word.  <I miss you, during the day.>  It was an uncommon level of honesty even for Gafinilan—emotions weren’t really considered important, especially among warriors—but Mertil felt himself give in immediately.

<Well,> Mertil said, casting about for a subject, <I read an endearingly earnest human treatise on gravitational physics yesterday.>

<You are the only person I know who reads gravitational physics for fun.>

<Just because _you_ never appreciated them, > Mertil said with a sniff, nestling his fingers into the thickest part of Gafinilan’s fur, the pale sheaf pattern at the deepest curve of his chest.  It was a rare marking, mimicking the foliage of a _derrishoul_ tree where the fur grew at different angles, and it was believed to be good luck.  Mertil had always found it charming.

Gafinilan smiled, his main eyes closing as his stalk eyes went unfocused.  <So, then.  Tell me, what do humans believe they know about gravitational physics?>

<All right,> Mertil said, looking down at the strong bones of Gafinilan’s face and gently stroking a thumb over his brow.  <All right.>

**Author's Note:**

> [Come talk to me on Tumblr about sad gay aliens and sad child soldiers!](http://words-writ-in-starlight.tumblr.com/)


End file.
